


Dragon's Side of the Story

by romanticalgirl



Category: Country Music RPF, Drive-By Truckers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't take her with you when you go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragon's Side of the Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/)**inlovewithnight** for beta-duty. Happy birthday, Mike Cooley.
> 
> Originally posted 9-14-08

There’s nothing on the calendar to mark the day as special. The same old bullshit that comes from being home and not on the road, being in the studio and making music they’d rather be playing live. Not that he needs anything to tell him what it is. He just knows that he needs to be right here.

Here is Shonna’s doorstep. The small house is dark and quiet, but he knows she’s there, hiding. He doesn’t knock so much as just announce his presence, and the door swings open. She’s standing there, probably has been since she heard his truck rumbling up the drive.

He forgets how damn tiny she is, so used to her playing that big bass like she was born to. Right now she looks like a kid, a little lost, a little alone and hurting like her heart’s forgotten how to beat. He’s not surprised. He’d found Patterson passed out on his kitchen table, after all, but he thought it would be better for her after all this time. Instead, it’s like a fresh wound bleeding in her eyes, the nail in the coffin of her first goddamn dream.

“I brought a friend along.” He holds up a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“C’mon in.” She steps back and the thick drawl of her accent makes it clear she’s already had a few on her own. “Bring your friend.”

He follows her into the silent house, and that’s the most telling thing of all. There’s never silence for any of them. There’s always music in the background somewhere, but it’s as silent as a grave right now. She leads him to the room at the back, where the stereo’s turned on so that the speakers rattle with the faint hum of static. “You listened yet?”

“No.” She’s heard it, he knows. They all have. They’ve all heard bits and snippets and tracks, but no one’s heard the whole thing, the finished project that has the potential to heal the pain or reopen old wounds. He can see it sitting on the shelf, the familiar NEW WEST logo bright against the deep brown of the cover. He doesn’t want to hear it again, even though he knows Jason’s got a hell of a talent. He knows that hearing it means reliving it, not just for Shonna, but for every last damn one of them. It’s times like that that being a musician sucks, because you put your heart in your songs and then you have to sing them to the world and let them speculate, let them go through your broken glass of a life with tweezers and a chain saw until they tear you apart.

“No time like the present.” He moves over to the stereo and looks at the disc, memorizing the titles so he knows when to brace himself. He wasn’t involved like the rest of them because it’s an open secret that he and Jason don’t get along so well, but he knows enough to know that his good name isn’t so good in at least a song or two. The disc isn’t sealed, so she’s looked at the pictures or read through the liner notes, and he reminds himself that they tried, they all tried, and if it was meant to be, it would have been. Or maybe they just didn’t try hard enough, but it’s too late for trying anymore.

Shonna sits on the couch with the bottle in her hand, but she hasn’t taken a drink yet. She’s careful like she’s either too drunk or not drunk enough, and he’s not sure which is better or worse. He loads the disc and pushes play before coming to sit beside her, letting the first notes just ride through the air, drum and guitar and then Jason’s voice loud enough to make Shonna shiver, even though it’s not so loud at all. Mike reaches for the bottle and opens it, offering it to Shonna as he listens. He’s new to most of this, only recognizing the little snippets he’s heard on the bus, on the road, building in Jason’s head while they were all falling apart.

He accepts the bottle from Shonna and takes a hit of his own. He closes his eyes and tries to be objective, even though that’s not why he’s here. Jason’s fucking talented, and Mike’s never denied that, but Jason’s also something the Truckers aren’t. Mike’s a lot of things and protective of a lot of others, but nothing more so than Patterson and the music they make together. It doesn’t bother him that Patterson makes music without him, but Mike won’t make music without Patterson. The Truckers _are_ him and Patterson at the core, and nothing brings out the fierceness in him than something fucking with that. He takes another drink, longer this time, then hands her back the bottle, tilting his head so he can watch her as the lyrics wash over her like flickering lights of emotion, changing her face over and over.

Her eyes close eventually, her mouth moving with the backing vocals on several songs, breath catching on the sharper words like hooks in her skin. She shivers from time to time, burying the slight motion in another drink until the entire album passes. Tears cling to her nearly invisible blonde lashes, darkening them as they lay on her cheeks. Her lower lip quivers and she licks at it, catching the liquor that threatens to get away from her, running toward her chin. He takes the bottle from her and sets it on the table, taking her hand in his own. “You okay?”

She nods then shakes her head, and he’s not a man of words, no matter how many lyrics he writes. He sings along, but the message is in the whine and the growl of the guitar he plays, not in everything he says. Shonna knows that, because she’s the same way, and so he doesn’t bother asking any more questions. He just reaches out and pushes that soft, fine blonde hair back away from her face and doesn’t say a word about running mascara or lips that look raw from chewing at the tender skin. Shonna turns toward him, blinking up at his face, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes toward her cheeks.

“He’s kind of a bastard,” he whispers, his thumbs catching the tears before they can get too far, his hands framing her face.

“No.” Her voice is as soft as his and she shakes her head again, dislodging more tears. Mike catches them all carefully, his thumbs leaving wet streaks on the warm redness of her cheeks. “He’s a good man, Cooley.” Her voice is thick with tears she hasn’t shed, the tears he knows she won’t.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not kind of a bastard.” He knows Jason and he’s not lying, and she knows it as well as he does. She laughs a little, hiccupping softly as Mike’s fingers continue to stroke her face, light and gentle as if she’s his newest guitar, as if he’s breaking her in slowly. Shonna’s eyes are big and sad and scared, and it’s the scared that gets to him, that kicks him low in the gut and tightens his groin. At the best of times, Shonna’s like a little sister, but now, like this, she’s nothing of the sort. She’s a sad, scared woman, newly single and newly scorched by words she’s known for a year or longer but until now never meant goodbye. “Of course, takes one to know one.”

She laughs and that’s all he needs to hear to know it’s going to be okay, even though the sadness in it takes something out of him, a chunk out of his heart that he thought was all locked up in things miles away from this little house. Instead, it’s here, warm inside him as he looks down at Shonna and he realizes that this was going to happen all along, and maybe he knew it or suspected, or maybe he didn’t, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is her breath tangling with his as he lowers his head and tastes the salt of her tears on her parted lips.

The noise she makes causes him to shiver and slide his hand down to the back of her neck, her nape is damp with perspiration and the tendrils of hair cling to his palm as his fingers rub gently, coaxing her to relax. She’s already loose from the whiskey, but she softens more at his touch, opening her mouth under his and letting him slide his tongue over hers, tasting the heat of her kiss. It’s strange in some ways, because he doesn’t think about Shonna like this, no matter what those rumors and accusations flying around the bus and the internet and the message boards might have been. Shonna’s _Shonna_ , for Christ’s sake, and he’s got a hell of a lot more respect for her than a quick fuck and a kiss goodbye, but this isn’t either of those things. Instead it’s a slow exploration of her, hands and mouth and tongue and fingers all breaking her down into her parts and learning her body inch by inch.

She slides her hands up his back and he can feel the heat of her through his thin t-shirt. He pushes her back onto the couch, shifting until he’s between her legs, lying on top of her as they kiss. It’s slow, not the frenzied rush of desperation, but the false sense of comfort and security. He doesn’t think about his wife and kids, and he doesn’t think about how he knew this was going to happen. He just thinks about the woman beneath him, thinks about being needed. He’s taller than her, so he fits easily against her, and his voice is nothing more than a growl as she wraps her legs around the back of his and grinds up against him.

Instinct takes over, or maybe it’s anger – at everything falling apart, even though it’s fallen back together even better than ever, at Jason, at Patterson, at himself – but suddenly there’s no easiness to this at all. He kisses Shonna hungrily, fiercely, meeting the thrust of her hips with his own. There’s enough booze in his system to make it easy, so he reaches between them, his hands callused and rough from his guitar, and finds the smooth skin of her stomach beneath her t-shirt, tracing the quiver of muscles until Shonna breaks their kiss to breathe, gasping softly before kissing him again.

Her hands move up to his hair as she tilts her head, deepening the kiss. She’s demanding now, hungry, and he wonders how long it’s been, and then makes himself not wonder that at all. However long, it’s been longer since it’s been good or meaningful if her fingers digging into his scalp and then his shoulders are any indication. She’s trying to devour him, and he lets her until she’s on the brink of leaving marks and then he pulls away. He doesn’t think about how much he’d like to look down and see her mouth clamped against his skin, leaving red marks and bruises with her tongue or her teeth while her fingers dig into his ass and his back because if he does he’ll lose what little control he’s hanging on to. Instead, he pulls away and tugs his shirt off before reaching for hers and stripping her down to nothing but the tight, faded blue jeans that fit her like a second skin. “Fuck, Shonna.” He bends his head and takes her breast in his mouth, suckling the tight nipple until she moans, full and throaty. Her short nails dig in and he knows that the marks are going to happen now, no way he can stop it, because there’s no way he can stop.

He can feel each furrow she rakes into his back accompanied by the crescendo of her hips as they lift up to meet his. They’re fucking, or as damn close to it as they can get with their jeans on, and he’s barely even gotten a taste of her. He moves over to the other breast and a part of his brain tries to catalogue the scents and sensations, but most of him is focused on the slow rhythm that they’ve settled into, hips meeting at the apex of the thrust and rolling into a curve that brings them back down onto the bed, only to part and meet again. It’s like they’ve been doing this for ages, or maybe it’s just like being on stage together, knowing in the flash of cameras and the glare of lights where the cords are, where the music is, where Shonna is right beside him, right behind him.

“Mike.” His name snaps his mind back into something like working order and he nods, leaning up to kiss her again. She’s flushed pink and hot and her nipples are like ripe temptation, wet from his mouth. She grabs his hand and slides it between her legs to the apex of her thighs, and reminds him without words that they’re not the only thing that’s wet. He pulls away just enough to shrug out of his jeans and then he watches with abject fascination as she shimmies out of hers like some sort of quick-change artist made up of hips and skin and short legs that seem to go on for miles from where they leave that mint green scrap of fabric that probably can’t legally be called panties in most of the lower 48.

“Fucking _hell_ , woman.” He pushes the fabric aside and slides his fingers against her, feeling just how wet she really is. Shonna makes a sound that might be a groan and might be a warning cry, but he doesn’t care. She’s hot around him, so hot and tight and thrusting down against his fingers before he can even work them inside her. He pushes two in and plants his thumb at the edge of her clit, circling it slowly as he begins thrusting. He crooks his fingers, playing the minor chord progression and she definitely groans at that, taking him deeper as his thumb slides over her clit three times in quick succession.

“Cooley,” she grinds the words out between clenched teeth, but it doesn’t stop him from tormenting her. He watches her face as he touches her, surprised at how much she gives away, given how little she’s shown through all of this. The rush of her first orgasm catches him unaware, so caught up in watching her, and he slides another finger in to meet it, thumbing her clit until she’s arched off the couch in a taut half-circle, coming in shuddering spasms that rock her small body. When she collapses, sprawled there and spent, he slides his hand free, slipping his fingers into his mouth to taste her. She watches him in a sort of shell-shocked stupor, and he wonders again how long it’s been as he tugs her panties all the way off of her and moves between her legs, sliding the head of his cock against her damp skin.

It’s not pretty and it’s not perfect. It’s two people having sex for the first time and, even though they know each other, there’s a lot they don’t know, a lot they never will. Still they move together like they’re meant to, and it doesn’t take too long before she’s coming again, before he follows her over the edge. She’s crying silently when he opens his eyes and he braces himself on his elbows and looks down at her, wiping her tears away again.

“It’s over,” he whispers. He means the sex, but he doesn’t mean the sex, and he hopes like hell that she knows it. Something in her face when she nods, when she makes herself stop crying tells him she does.

“I know.” She sniffs and smiles and he can see Shonna again, the girl that brought Jason to the band, the girl Jason brought to the band, the girl in the band Jason didn’t have much choice to leave behind. The CD has started over, and Jason sings all around them, his words not cutting nearly as deep right now. “Thanks. I’m gonna be okay.”

“I know you will.” He stands and dresses, and they’ve shared a bus and that’s sometimes a hell of a lot more intimate than this. “You’re a Trucker, ain’t ya?”

“Damn right.” Shonna nods and tugs her t-shirt back on as Mike starts to leave. She stops him by calling his name and nods at his hand, proving him right beyond a shadow of a doubt. “Leave the whiskey.”  



End file.
